I am an American, Chicago born–Chicago, that somber city—and go at things as I have taught myself, free-style, and will make the record in my own way: first to knock, first admitted; sometimes an innocent knock, sometimes a not so innocent. But a man’s character is his fate, says Heraclitus, and in the end there isn’t any way to disguise the nature of the knocks by acoustical work on the door or gloving the knuckles.

Everybody knows there is no fineness or accuracy of suppression; if you hold down one thing you hold down the adjoining.

My own parents were not much to me, though I cared for my mother. She was simple-minded, and what I learned from her was not what she taught, but on the order of object lessons. She didn’t have much to teach, poor woman. My brothers and I loved her. I speak for them both; for the elder it is safe enough; for the younger one, Georgie, I have to answer—he was born an idiot—but I’m in no need to guess,  for he had a song he sang as he ran dragfooted with his stiff idiot’s trot, up and down along the curl- wired fence in the backyard.

From “The Adventures of Augie March” by Saul Bellow

Reading Bellow’s works provides as much pleasure for our senses as sharing an inspiring conversation with a friend over a glass of good red wine. I enjoy the way he builds his sentences, the power of his words, the observations that brings out the most hidden nuances in a protagonist’s personality. This is the beginning of the book. Doesn’t it make you feel like getting to know this person? Chicago can be somber and can be splendorous.  And we are born with a character that can determine our fate: “But a man’s character is his fate, says Heraclitus, and in the end there isn’t any way to disguise the nature …” In my book, “The Stranger’s Enigma,” the protagonist, Dr. Brandon, learns from the man who lives in his dreams the virtues he lost  so that he can recover them. We are also our own sculptors and can chisel our personality as we go along through life.